An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [67]
It’s not a quiet space, not with the hum of an air exchanger or air conditioning unit that’s beeping. The beeping changes to a shrill alarm while I’m poking my nose into a box labelled binding materials. I panic, grab an armful of books from the table then slam the door behind me. I run to the car and hide the books in the trunk. The alarm stops soon after I enter Norah’s house. I can feel my heart pumping. I look out through the window then go back to reading the paper. It’s not easy to concentrate. I expect Norah, Francis or the police to appear any minute to demand an explanation A couple of hours later, Norah’s phone rings and I jump. I don’t answer. I go to the porch to look through the window. Outside, there’s no sign of anyone. Not long after, my cellphone vibrates in my pocket.
“Hi. It’s me, Norah. Just got to the office a while ago.” She pauses. “Hello? Carl?”
“Hello, I’m here, yes.”
“I tried calling you on my line. I wanted to ask you to take the chicken out of the freezer. There was no answer. Where are you?”
“I’m here. I was in the bathroom when the phone rang.” I was near the bathroom. Changing one preposition doesn’t make it a lie. I may have become a thief but I’m not a liar.
The books stay in my car for the night. The next morning, I drive straight from Cliffhead to the library. I open the trunk, put the books in my briefcase then lock the car. Just before I enter the library, I change my mind. I return to the car and leave the books in the trunk. This time, I don’t bother to lock it. The books are still there the following day. So are Henry’s reminders. “Won’t be long now before the privacy policy has its final approval,” he says.
“I don’t care anymore. I’ve given up.”
“You can’t give up when you haven’t even begun. What are you going to do? Resign? Go back to Norway and live with your princess?”
“There are worse fates.”
“Such as working under Francis,” he says.
“We’ll see about that.”
The books are still there later that day after I finish work at the library. I leave the car unlocked on Gower Street. When I finally fall asleep that night, I dream I’m back in Norway and Elsa is holding the books in her lap. Then Francis is driving my car. We’re heading down Cathedral Street. The brakes aren’t working. He’s cursing. When I wake, I’m sweating so much, the bed sheets are wet. I feel nauseated. I dress quickly then go to the car before I have breakfast. I open the trunk. They’re still there. I put them in my briefcase and bring them back into my flat while I get ready for work.
That afternoon when Henry shows up for coffee, the four volumes are on my desk. He pats me on the back. “You’re a clever man, Carl.” He begins with Newfoundland Notebooks, Dr. Cluny Macpherson, inventor of the prototype of the gas mask. He holds one of its pages under the lamp. “There’s the Special Collections stamp. See it?” he says. He does the same for the three remaining volumes. The stamps are on all of them: on the James D. Ryan diaries (Bonavista,1874-1919), on a collection of original sketches by Roger Tory Peterson called The Birds of Newfoundland and on Sir William Whiteway: Correspondence and Papers.
“Call Margaret and confirm that you’ll meet with the Chief as soon as he’s available.” He holds one of the books in the air. “Let there be evidence!”
“Careful. Someone will hear you.”
“Hear me they will and they’ll hear you when you holler victory.”
“Calm down, Henry.”
“Now is not the time to be calm. Now’s the time to be active. Put on a pot of coffee. We’ve plenty to do here.”
“And then what?”
“We’ll go home to our suppers.”
“I mean what will we do with the books?”
“Not what will we do. What will you do?”
“Well?”
“Show the Chief the books, tell him where they